


A Guilded Cage is Still a Cage

by Cannibalbaby



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, FBI Agent Will Graham, Gen, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Reel Hannibal Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannibalbaby/pseuds/Cannibalbaby
Summary: Hannibal’s grin widens as he takes a seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Ah, you were wrong. Is that becoming familiar territory for you, Agent Crawford?” He pauses, practically able to feel the anger rolling off of the Agent in waves even though he’s nowhere near. “I will give you Dolarhyde, but first-”“There is no ‘but first’,” Jack interrupts, a frown creasing Hannibal's brow “you don’t decide anything. I am the one in charge, you are the one in the cage.”********Will is a professor for the FBI, but when the fourth most wanted person just waltzes into their headquarters, he gets sucked into the dance.Updated every Tuesday and Friday until complete.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Will Graham, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: Reel Hannibal 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun participating in this writing challenge! This was my first year writing for a Reel Fic challenge and I highly enjoyed it. It was surprising the amount of hours I spent studying the first episode of 'The Blacklist' as well as the scripts and transcripts for both shows. I have 11 chapters and an epilogue planned for this story. I will be posting them every Tuesday! Any mistakes are my own, I hope you enjoy!

The bustling airport is roaring with the sound of children and people rushing to and fro, dragging luggage around as they dash towards gates. The air is ripe with the scent of cheap coffee and something unmistakably... human. A tall, obviously distinguished man stands in a line roped off from others nearby, gazing over the scene around him. He can catch the occasional snippets of conversations in various languages as people pass by. Nobody in particular catches the man’s eye, but it is a decent distraction until his turn arrives. It’s fascinating the amount of information you can glean about someone just by observing them for a modicum of time.

The well-dressed man casually approaches the window, his briefcase in one hand, and his passport already unfurled in the other. He offers the woman behind the glass a kind nod as he passes the booklet through the hole at the bottom. Her brow is creased, she is obviously having a long day. 

“Good afternoon.” He greets amicably, her gaze rising to his as she offers a polite greeting in return.

“Where have you been traveling?” She asks as she investigates the book with gloved fingers.

“Singapore, on business.” He answers quickly, still polite, but not wanting to discuss his business any more than necessary. 

She nods, glancing from the booklet once more. “And where are you headed?”

He offers her a small smile. “Home.”

She nods once more before slamming a stamp down onto the page. Passing it back, she offers one last comment. “Welcome home.”

His exit from the building is quick, but not rushed. He moves with confident and purposeful strides, his well-tailored long coat giving him an otherworldliness as it flares out behind him. He doesn’t have to pick up any luggage, not expecting to need them during his stay, so he swiftly makes his way outside where a sleek black Bently awaits him.

The discrete chauffeur offers a small bow along with a polite greeting before opening the rear door for him to climb in. They do not exchange any words other than the ceremonious, the driver already aware of where he intends to go. The plan was decided on long ago, to an exacting degree that would account for no errors such as an incompetent member of his staff. Such ineptitude is entirely intolerable when working for him, any inability to comply with the intricate requirements he has for those under him can have lethal ramifications. A fact they are all more than aware of.

It’s been far too long since he’s visited the United States, let alone Washington DC. His business has kept him away from what was once his home and the return has sparked something he once thought foreign to build in his chest, longing for his previous life. The ride through town brings forth many memories of better days, of times when he was able to travel freely through the streets and those even spark reminders of his past forays at the opera. He finds himself remiss that these connections should be made now as his currently unfolding plans negate any chance at ever experiencing these moments again outside of the fortitude of his mind palace. Rolling down his window just a crack, he scans over the view of the city with an ever-growing fondness in his chest. He takes a deep breath, the aroma of the city washing over him. 

Once they’ve arrived at their destination, the older man doesn’t wait for his door to be opened, stepping out on his own with his briefcase still in hand. He can’t help the small smirk on his face as he looks over the daunting concrete building before him. The chauffeur approaches him once more, his eyes also on the large building on the other side of the street from where they have parked. 

The well-dressed passenger gives him swift instructions on where to take the vehicle before dismissing the driver and crossing the street towards the building without once looking back. He stills once more as he glances at the title etched into the siding. ‘J. Edgar Hoover Building.’ The home of the FBI.

Once inside, after passing through a series of metal detectors, he is able to step immediately to the guard standing behind the security desk. She eyes him wearily through the glass as he digs into the pocket of his coat, pulling out his passport, though this one is different from the previous one he used at the airport. This is his true passport, not the one he had doctored under a false identity. He lays it on the desk, carefully sliding it towards her. The moment is freeing in a way, able to give his own name for the first time in a very long time. It sets an easy grin across his face.

“Good afternoon, I’m here to see assistant director Jack Crawford.” His accented words are calm as he watches her investigate the passport.

“Do you have an appointment?” She questions, scanning the passport for the computer to check.

“I’m afraid not. Please do tell him it’s Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” He offers, earning an eye roll from the guard as he turns to look out over the lobby space. He can forgive her rudeness. For now.

He turns and takes a step forward, glancing around the space to investigate the clean interior. There is a distinct glare in the windows that tells him its likely bulletproof glass above the wide entrance space. American flags hang high from poles mounted by the doors, and on the wall to his right is a collection of pictures.  
In large letters above it reads ‘America’s Ten Most Wanted’. He scrolls over the familiar images, pausing at his own face settled in the fourth position. He offers the old image a small smirk before wandering towards the large seal in the center of the room and setting his briefcase down just outside of it. He can feel the confused eyes of the guard behind him on his back as he proceeds to remove the overcoat he wore over his suit jacket, which he also removes. 

The computer dings in recognition of the picture on the passport. Simultaneously the man before her sinks to his knees. She follows his gaze to the large display on the wall, realizing that the image that the computer flagged matches that of the one he continues to look at. The guards around the room look uneasy until the alarm is hit, waiting in anticipation to pull their weapons on the man already pulling his hands behind his head.

He looks defiantly forward as a deafening ringing blares out over the room, metal sheets falling with loud crashes over the doors as the building goes under lockdown. Agents bust out of every doorway with their weapons trained on the wanted man kneeling before them, civilians quickly being ushered out of the area. 

His face does not show any fear or concern, in fact, he’s proud. He keeps totally calm as he's pushed to the ground, cuffs locked over his wrists behind his back. Agents are yelling at each other through radios, feet shuffle around with weapons drawn. His expression is regal as always as he’s roughly dragged to his feet, his eyes once again connecting with those of his picture against the wall twenty feet away. A small smirk comes over his face as he’s manhandled from the scene, an agent wearing gloves grabbing his belongings from the floor and following.

America’s number four Most Wanted has just surrendered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating this fic every Tuesday and Friday! If you haven't yet, you should totally go check out some of the other Reel fics! They are in the collection!

Sirens ring loudly, echoing over the concrete of the parking deck as multiple large black government-issue Suburbans screech to a halt in front of a large cargo elevator. As personnel pour out of the vehicles, a woman steps out of the lift to greet them. The others stay back by the vehicles, one large man stepping from the closest car to meet her halfway, offering his hand to her. She is smaller than he might expect, but the fire in her eyes belie any sort of doubt he could have in her capabilities as an agent.

She takes his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Beverly Katz, Washington field office. I’m the case agent on Lecter.”

The large man returns the firm shake, removing the hat from his head. “Assistant Director Jack Crawford. When did this happen?”

She begins to lead him towards the large elevator, their conversation continuing as they move. “About an hour ago.”

“And we’re sure it’s him?” He asks, a frown on his face.

“Oh yeah, it’s him. Prints match, tattoos, he even recalled classified details about a Brussels mission in ‘08.” She confirms as they step toward the elevator, two largely armed swat members with heavy armor waiting for them inside.

“What happened in Brussels?” Jack asks as they step inside, the guard to the right pressing a button to close the door. 

“Oh? We tried to kill him, sir.” She responds easily as they are lowered into the true headquarters of the office.

Computers as well as monitoring equipment is scattered across the main floor, large screens overhead depict footage and news clippings pertaining to Lecter as well as a live feed of his cell. To the left of the screens are large clear boards covered in pictures all associated with the wanted man and their hunt for him in some way or another. 

Jack and Beverly enter, his eyes immediately locking on the overhead screen. On it, he has multiple camera views of the older man sitting calmly in a chair that is bolted to the center of the cell, his arms bound to the armrests. He shows no discomfort, his eyes casually scanning over the room.

“Christ, it’s really him.” He sighs, letting out the internalized doubt he’s felt since hearing the news.

Beverly comes up to him, a briefcase in her hands that she sets on the table next to them, slowly unpacking it. “Came in with this briefcase, has every alias he’s ever used. Most of ‘em we’ve never heard of before.”

He glances at the bag once before looking back at the screen. “What’s he want?”

She shrugs, pushing the folders back into the case. “No clue, he won’t talk. Could get more information from a stone.”

Jack grumbles internally. Something about this situation feels off to him. “Call lab services. Get him fitted with an AlphaChip RFID tag. Then, get a full intel review assembled. NSA, CIA.”

“What all do you want to know?” She asks, watching him carefully before following his gaze to the screen.

“Everything.”

*****

Beverly walks around the room, agents and personnel all scattered in chairs throughout the meeting room. She paces back and forth around the space as she speaks, not needing the folder that everyone else has in their hands. She’s worked this case for years, has inserted herself so far within his circle of influence, all of his information is singed into her skull by this point. 

“Hannibal Lecter lost his family when he was young, spent most of his youth in an orphanage in Lithuania. As a teen, he escaped to France where he lived with his aunt. It’s here that he began medical school and is also suspected of multiple murders, but due to lack of evidence, nothing was ever done. Lecter also spent some time in Italy during his education where he is also wanted. He came to America to finish his medical degree, graduating from Johns Hopkins at the top of his class by the time he was twenty-four. He continued to work at the hospital, he was being groomed to become chief surgeon.

“Then, in less than two years he just up and vanished from the face of the earth. When missing person investigations began, his home in Baltimore was searched. Inside we found loads of incriminating evidence, including but certainly not limited to a secret basement with physical evidence connecting to multiple high profile murders. Three years later, classified files began popping up in Maghreb, Islamabad, and Beijing, all of these linking back to Lecter. 

“He’s an equal opportunity offender and master manipulator, brokering deals with fellow criminals. We know of assassinations, laundered money, and bribed judges that he's had a hand in. Last year he personally negotiated a ceasefire between the Calderon government and the drug cartel.

“He has no country, no political agenda. His only allegiance is to the highest bidder, his choice of prey the rude and uncivilized. He views himself as above the rest of us, a superior being surrounded by lowly animals. Pigs.”

One of the agents speaks up, looking up from the file. “He has a name in the papers.”

“Multiple names depending on the country. In Italy he’s called Il Mostro. Here in America he’s called ‘The Chesapeake Ripper’.”

*****

After the meeting, Beverly returns to the main workroom, Jack standing next to one of the techs who is vigorously typing away. “Anything, Zeller?”

Inside his cell, visible on Zeller’s small screen, they can see an agent injecting something into Hannibal's arm, the chip Jack had ordered. Hannibal offers a small ‘ouch’ at the action, but nothing else. His eyes don’t roam to the agents, his lips not moving.

“He’s online.” He answers, Jack and Beverly watching as Hannibal is let out of his restraints to roam his cell.

He stands, not showing any pain or tension as he crosses his hands behind his back, circling his cage for a moment like a languid panther. His eyes scan his surroundings before he halts just behind the chair he was just seated in. He gently grasps the back, smirking as he makes eye contact with one of the many cameras inside his containment.

“I’m pleased to see someone with the authority to make proper decisions has arrived. I thought I could smell your cologne, a bit heavy with hubris for my taste. A pleasure, Agent Crawford.”

Jack growls at the dig, Hannibal smirking wider as if he could hear him. Jack almost wants to open the communication line just to make a comment on his rudeness, but refuses to let the man get to him so easily. “Fix the damn feed, get him up here.” He orders, the image of Hannibal's cell flashing up to the large overhead screen for all to see.

“I’m sure you have countless questions,” he begins, circling back around the room once more before looking back up to a different camera “so, why not begin with the important one: why I’ve allowed myself into such a position.” The movement reminds Beverly of a caged beast in the zoo, a wild animal barely contained.

“Agent Crawford, do you recall the 1986 attack on the U.S. Embassy in Damascus, or perhaps the six foreign nationals from the French consulate in Algiers in ‘97, even the 2002 breach of the Krungthai Bank in Bangkok? Unseemly as you may think it is, these events are in fact related. He’s referred to as The Dragon by the CIA, but I can tell you his real name is Francis Dolarhyde. You want him, as do I. Let’s say that, for the moment at least, our interests are aligned.”

Crawford sighs, disbelieving what he’s hearing. “Feed this through to the Assistant A.G. of Counterterrorism.”

“Get main justice on the phone too.” Beverly orders as well, agents rushing to comply.

With quick taps of his keyboard, Zeller is able to pull up Dolarhyde’s record. “He was previously in the military to avoid criminal charges, then after an honorable discharge, he worked as a Film Processing Technician. After being suspected of the murder of the Marlow family he was hunted down by officers. Dead on the scene half a dozen years ago.”

Crawford presses a button on another nearby computer to open the communication. “He’s been dead for six years, he’s a non-existent threat.”

Hannibal sighs, obviously annoyed by the incompetence of the agents. “If that were the case, then a dead man just stepped off of United 283 from Munich to Dulles.”

Agents rush around in an attempt to confirm this information, Beverly as well as a multitude of other agents on phones or typing away on computers. Jack’s angry voice pushes them to hurry, If Lecter is telling the truth, they need to know this  _ now _ .

“I’ve got him!” Price shouts to get their attention, blowing up camera footage from the airport next to the live image from the cell. “He entered the country under the name Eldon Stammets. Cleared customs at 10:56 am.”

Beverly rushes back, the phone still in her hand from the call she was just on. “Listen up! The lab just pulled a print from the armrest of his seat, had a nine-point match. He’s alive, Jack.”

Jack groans under his breath as he turns back to the screen, re-opening the line. “You have my attention.”

Hannibal’s grin widens as he takes a seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Ah, you were wrong. Is that becoming familiar territory for you, Agent Crawford?” He pauses, practically able to feel the anger rolling off of the Agent in waves even though he’s nowhere near. “I will give you Dolarhyde, but first-”

“There is no ‘but first’,” Jack interrupts, a frown creasing Hannibal's brow “you don’t decide anything. I am the one in charge, you are the one in the cage.”

Hannibal’s frown deepens into a look of internalized rage at the disrespect, his voice lowering dangerously. “Agent Crawford, you are overestimating your authority. I gave my word that I would assist you in capturing Dolarhyde, and I intend to do so. I have one condition for this service: from this point forward, I speak exclusively with William Graham.”

Beverly and Jack look at each other for a moment, Jack giving an annoyed sigh. She looks between the agent and the screen. “Who the hell is William Graham?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the last post! Got caught up unpacking yesterday! 🙏🙏🙏

The sun filters faintly through the curtains, landing over the wood floor and the lower half of the bed. The room is still mostly dim, the ray not quite bright enough to illuminate the room. In the bed is a man and his wife, curled in close as they sleep peacefully. Their calm rest is interrupted by a large golden dog leaping onto the bed and treading right between their forms, pushing them apart before attacking their faces with his long tongue. The man wakes with a groan, the woman offering a tired laugh at the action. He attempts to scold the pup but is not yet at the level of consciousness to properly form words, let alone get after a dog.

After pushing the pet towards his wife’s side of the bed for her to coo at, he turns with a groan towards his alarm clock set on the bedside table next to the bed. The time is blinking at 12:00 as if the clock had been reset. With this, his mind instantly goes online, quickly looking at the watch he’d fallen asleep wearing. Curses of every color, shape, and size fall from his mouth as he dashes from the bed.

His wife is of course confused, sitting up with the dog in her lap to watch him as he rushes towards the bathroom. “What’s wrong, Will?

“Crap, crap, crap.” He mutters as he brushes his teeth.

“Are you okay? You need help?” She asks as he rushes to get dressed.

“The power went out last night Alana, I’m late.” He answers finally as he quickly throws on his clothes.

She takes a look at the clock, muttering a curse or two of her own as she quickly begins to get ready herself. “I can't find my keys, can I take your car?” Will asks as he pats pockets and checks dressers.

“Can’t, I've got the conference planning committee.” She calls back as he goes to the kitchen, quickly throwing some bread in the toaster, starting the coffee, and calling for Winston to run out into the backyard.

When he returns to the kitchen Alana is there, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and holding a thermos for him. He takes it gladly as he opens the fridge, grabbing some leftovers and quickly digging into them, earning a laugh from Alana as she munches on a piece of toast. She reaches across the counter and grabs two pamphlets, holding them up for her husband. 

“New Orleans or Denver?” She asks, over toast as she walks around him to grab something.

Will thinks for a second. “Denver. If you plan on having this in August, the weather is gonna be a lot better.”

“Right, Good thinking.” She comments as she returns from the room.

“We need milk,” Will adds as he puts back the unfinished leftovers.

“Okay-” she freezes with a sigh “I’m standing in pee, babe.”

Will can’t hide his amused chuckle. “He’s your dog too, ya know.” 

He quickly grabs some paper towels to throw on the ground, Alana removing her socks and playfully whacking him with them. “Yeah, thanks a lot. Now I'm gonna smell like a urinary tract infection during the meeting.” She laughs as she quickly tosses them in the hamper and grabs a new pair. “By the way, don’t forget we have that meeting today. One-thirty. Don’t forget, Will. One-thirty.”

Will nods, letting the dog back in quickly. “I’m in the car, you got the keys?”

“In my bag.” She responds, grabbing said bag as they move towards the door.

“I’ve got your coffee.” He adds as they leave, turning to the dog before the door closes. “No more peeing, Winston.”

As they step down from the house, Alana pauses on the step, Will walking back up to look at her in confusion. “What? We both woke up seven minutes ago, I’m eighty percent sure my skirt is backward, I can hardly see straight. But you are somehow dressed, composed, and handsome as the day I met you.”

Will ducks his head in embarrassment, realizing after a moment why she’s saying this. “I’m forgetting something.”

She nods with a laugh, holding out his F.B.I. badge. He takes it carefully with a smile, slipping it into his back pocket. “So were you serious about the whole ‘house in the country’ thing? Because I’ve got stuff going on-” He cuts off with a laugh when he gets a well-deserved smack to his arm. “Today’s the day.”

She nods with a smile. “You worked so hard for this, are you nervous?”

Will checks his watch. “No, but I am ridiculously late.”

They take no more than a step down before the loud roaring of a helicopter buzzes overhead, the wind bustling around from the blades. A series of Black SUVs bust in from the sides, lights and sirens running hot. Agents rush from the vehicles, a woman jumping from the closest one and approaching them. 

Her face is serious as she comes just to the bottom of the steps, holding out her badge for them to see. “Professor Graham, Agent Beverly Katz. Washington field office. I need you to come with me right now.”

Will sighs. “Guess I don’t need the car after all.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your comments and kudos! I'm glad you are liking the story!

Will sits quietly in the well-lit office, his wedding ring on his finger the only visible sign of discomfort. He twists and fiddles with it while waiting. Agent Katz sits in a chair not too far behind him, watching him carefully. “What is this place?” He asks, quietly, hoping against hope that a conversation will ease the eyes burning into his back.

“D.C. Metro Sorting Facility, U.S. Postal Service. It was abandoned and slated for demo nineteen years ago. The boys up top acquired the building after 9/11. Been running a variety of operations here ever since.”

“So this is a black site?” He asks out of curiosity, he’s never been to one before.

“We’re sentimental, we call it the post office.” She shrugs, he can hear the smirk in her voice.

The door finally opens, Crawford walking through. Will stands to shake his hand before sitting again. “Will Graham, I’m Assistant Director Jack Crawford.”

Will sighs. “We’ve met.”

Jack offers a humorless smirk at the bluntness, already expecting the reaction. “Yes, we had a disagreement about the museum when we opened it.”

“I disagreed with what you named it.” Will adjusts his glasses.

This time the smirk is more genuine. “The evil minds research museum?”

Will scoffs at the title. “It’s a little hammy, Jack.”

Jack nods, acquiescing to his opinion, not wanting to start up that debacle again. “So, can you tell me what’s going on?” 

Will groans, shifting in his chair. “I wish I could, Jack, but you know I’ve been vetted just like everybody else. Same background checks, psych profiles. I bet OPR’s trolling around for my digital records right now, and I can tell you they won't find squat.”

“What will they find?” He asks seriously, folding his hands in front of him on the desk.

Will frowns. “Nothing. I have no history with Dr. Lecter.” He lets out a quick chuckle. “I teach about his crimes in one of my classes.”

Jack nods with a sigh. “Where do you fall? On the spectrum?”

“My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths,” Will grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest as he vehemently avoids the agent’s gaze.

“I hear you can empathize with the narcissists and sociopaths.”

Will snorts. “I can empathize with anybody. Less to do with personality disorders and more to do with an active imagination.”

Jack hesitates for a moment, watching Will carefully. “I want you to profile yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who are you? What does he see that has him so interested? Profile Will Graham.”

Will nods, taking a moment to think. “I have a history with law enforcement, working homicide in New Orleans for a few years. I’m a professor at Quantico for the FBI. I have a degree in criminal psychology-”

Jack huffs, interrupting him. “We’ve read your resume.”

Will nods, thinking a bit more as he shifts in his seat again. “My colleagues consider me unapproachable, I’m considered odd and reserved in social circles and an oddity in psychological ones. I have a deep-set wish to help people, willing to let myself fall to save others.” He offers a humorless chuckle as he brushes his hand over his face. 

Jack listens carefully, Beverly showing some interest of her own from behind but still remaining silent as Jack speaks. “Why you, specifically?”

“The FBI considers me unstable, it’s why I'm a teacher and not an agent. He thinks I can be easily manipulated. The man obviously doesn’t know me very well.”

Jack finds he likes the blunt courage in him. “Can I borrow your imagination?”

They leave the office, a team of agents escorting the trio down to the main control room. Will is mesmerized by the setup, his eyes quickly taking everything in as he’s led down a hall to a side door. They enter the small room, a window almost the size of the entire wall looks out into the larger room on the other side, leaving only enough space for a door to a staircase leading down into said room.

From this perch up above he’s able to see the high-security measures they’ve taken with Dr. Lecter, not just putting him into some lowly cell in the corner. The room is ginormous, easily bigger than a full-sized basketball court, and in the center is a raised platform. On that platform is a large cube, made visible on all sides by the bullet-resistant glass with thick metal in the corners and edges to reinforce its strength. The cage is far enough away that he can see the silhouette of the man inside, but nothing of detail. 

Jack clasps a large hand on his shoulder, instantly making Will feel uncomfortable. “Remember, if you need anything, we’re right up here.”

Will swallows, nodding as he exits down into the facility, eyes locked onto the chair in front of the cage and not the man inside. He flicks his gaze up, lifting his chin in a show of defiance as the door to the containment unit swings open. Inside Lecter is cuffed by his wrists and ankles to the reinforced metal chair once more. Will reaches his own chair placed half a dozen feet away just as the walls of the cage are finalizing their move. Hannibal sits calmly, his gaze taking in Will’s form without any hesitation before he lifts his gaze to Wills, who immediately deflects it to the man's cheek. Close, but not quite there.

“Hello Will, what an honor.” He greets amicably, his eyes not leaving Will as he sits down.

The professor gestures to himself. “Well, I’m here.”

There’s a crinkle of amusement around Hannibal’s eyes, he inhales slowly, closing his eyes momentarily to enjoy the scent. “I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave, that smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

Will scoffs, remembering hearing about his strong sense of smell. “I keep getting it for Christmas.”

Hannibal’s eyes don’t leave him, though his head does tilt minutely in thought. “You cut your hair. I rather favored your curls. More reminiscent of your youth. Have you returned to your southern roots recently?”

“Tell me about Dolarhyde.” Will sighs, not wanting to deal with his eccentricities. 

“It’s been far too long since I’ve returned to my own roots.” Hannibal comments, sounding almost longing. 

Will can feel the annoyance bubbling in his chest. “Why involve me? I’m just a professor, I’m not even an actual agent. There's nothing special about me.” 

“Oh Will, I disagree. You are very special…” The words roll so seductively off of his tongue, his eyes piercing through skin and bone. Will flicks his gaze to a nearby guard, his discomfort betraying him. “Within the hour, Francis Dolarhyde plans to abduct the daughter of the U.S. General. Reba McClane is the name I believe. There will be some kind of diversion, communications shall be scrambled, then he will abscond with the girl. He wants to be out of the country within 36 hours. If you do not move swiftly, she will die. That’s what I know.”

“And tell me, doctor, how do you know this?” Will asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Another look of amusement in his eyes. “Who do you suspect helped him enter the country?”

“And I’m just supposed to believe you?”

Hannibal huffs quietly. “Why would you? I’m a criminal, criminals are notorious liars. Everything about me is a fabrication. However, if anyone were to truly see me for what I am, it would be you.” Will leans back as he listens, he doesn’t like what the man before him is implying. “Abandoned by your mother who left in shame at having passed her gift on to you, a father who was in no position to raise a child as talented as yourself, let alone on his own, trekking you across the country at his whim. And yet, here you are, about to capture Francis Dolarhyde.” His voice lowers once more, serious with a side of admiration. “I look forward to your becoming.” 

*****  
Will slams the door behind him as he enters the observation room, his blood is practically boiling beneath his skin as he shoulders past Katz towards Crawford. “What the hell did you tell him, Jack?”

“Excuse me?” Jack asks, his own frown forming at being accused.

Will slows his words down as if speaking to a child, though his anger doesn’t simmer down. “How did he know those things?” He growls, rubbing his face under his glasses before turning his back to the director in order to speak to Beverly. “We need to contact the SWAT commander at Quantico. A team needs to be rolled out for that girl.”

Beverly scoffs, though she seems amused by all of this. “Nonsense. He’s totally bluffing.”

“No, he’s establishing value. You’ve been the agent on him for, what, five years?” Beverly quickly nods. “Well, five years has gotten you nothing.” He turns to Jack once more. “You asked me here, you made me talk to him. You want my opinion? Here it is: that girl is going to get taken.”

*****  
Will stands just outside the parking deck, his phone to his ear as he paces, waiting for the recipient to answer. The tension in his chest melts when he hears the familiar voice on the other end. “Alana. Thank god you picked up.”

Her voice is instantly soothing when she catches the shakiness of his voice. “Hey, Will, what’s wrong? Are you close?”

“That helicopter this morning, they flew me to the Assistant Director, put me on a case, and I can’t get away.”

“Will, you should not be in the field! You know what that does to you.” She scolds with a sigh on her lips.

“I’m sorry.” He apologies genuinely, seeing Beverly waving at him from around the corner. “I know we had an appointment, but there’s a girl, something happened-” He stops himself “I can’t tell you… It’s classified. This whole day is classified.” He tacks on an awkward laugh as he makes his way towards the parking lot.

“Will, Will, babe, if this is too much, we don’t have to do this right now, okay? We can look for other places. But if we are gonna go through with this, you have to do it with me. I can’t do this by myself.”

“We gotta move, you called in the cavalry so you better be ready,” Jack speaks quickly as they head towards the government SUVs.

Will stops for a moment to speak, turning away from the others. “No, no. Alana, listen, our family is the only thing that matters, okay? I want this.”

He can hear her sigh of resignation over the phone. “All right, I’ll handle it. I think this woman might punch me in the face, but I’ll take care of it.”

“I am so sorry.” He apologizes once more as he opens the car door.

“Don’t be sorry, just be safe, okay? I love you.” Her voice is calming, helping to relax his shoulders.

“I love you too.” He responds as he climbs in, closing the door with a bang.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh darn it. The day I actually remember my deadlines for posting is the day that hell freezes over lol. Enjoy the chapter!

SWAT teams storm through the high school, children flooding from classrooms as they are being evacuated. Children are everywhere, panic ensuing through the halls. Teachers attempt to direct the kids outside and away from the building towards the parking lot. Outside the agents pull in, the chaos separating them from each other. Will and Beverly both rush into the crowd, trying to locate someone who knows what's going on. After shoving and shouldering through the sea of students they find an adult who is directing teens away from the building by standing on a picnic table and shouting down at them.

Beverly quickly gets the teacher’s attention, flashing her badge as he climbs down. “FBI. What the hell happened.”

“Campus security freaked when he saw the SWAT and activated the emergency plan.”

Will sighs, looking around, scanning faces. His eyes fail to catch the one face he needs. With a grumble he climbs up on top of the table, trying once more to get a good view over the absolute pandemonium happening below. In his head, he makes a note to contact the school about evacuation plans later. For the moment, though, he needs to find her.

“Reba?! I’m looking for Reba McClane!” He shouts, students and teachers alike looking at him in surprise at seeing the unfamiliar man. 

The teacher below shouts out for him to look ahead, pointing into the crowd. When he follows the line of sight he sees the girl they need, looking obviously shaken as she is led towards the agents by another teacher. Will jumps down from the table as she is brought over, Beverly attempting to calm her.

They quickly lead her towards the cars, the girl at some point gripping to his hand so that she’s not once again lost in the chaos. Instead of losing her, he loses sight of Beverly. He tries to look around for her as he helps the girl into the Suburban, but he can’t find her. Reluctantly he climbs into the vehicle beside her and the train of SUVs swiftly leaves.

As they drive, the radio crackles. Apparently Beverly got into the car in front of them. The static of the agents speaking over the radio seems to stress the girl more, so Will asks the driver to turn it down for the moment. “Hey, you’re alright.”

He can see tears building in her eyes as she hugs her bag to her chest. “Is it dad? Is he hurt?”

Will internally grumbles, he’s never been particularly good with kids. “No, Reba. Your dad is fine. We’re on our way to see him now.” He answers as leveled as possible as he takes his glasses off to clean them on his shirt.

She looks over at him, her eyes scanning him skeptically. “You’re an FBI agent? You look like my science teacher, just thirty years younger.”

Will can’t help the tug of humor on his lips. “I teach at the academy when I’m not busting down doors.”

That comment earns him a smile. “Is it hard, being an agent?”

He pauses for a moment in thought, hiding it as taking the time to check his lenses before putting them back on. “Sometimes.” It’s quiet for a moment between them, so he looks over at where she has been stroking her wrist with her thumb. On the inside of her wrist is a small flower looking mark. “I wouldn’t think your dad the type to let you get tattoos.” 

She glances down at it before looking back up at him with a smirk. “Definitely not. Took a hell of a lot of convincing just to let me go on the field trip. We went to the Art Museum.”

The SUV slows to a stop in the middle of a bridge, both of them immediately looking forward out the windshield. They can’t see anything due to the vehicle ahead of them. He reaches for the radio, asking what's going on.

Beverly’s voice comes over the radio, annoyance thick in her tone. “Rolling Thunder to Follow 1. Be advised we have a chemical spill ahead.”

Will groans and hands the microphone end back to the driver. “Copy that. Proceeding to alternate route.”

Will leans back into his seat, the girl staring out the window towards the bridge below as the caravan continues slowly creeping to turn around. “Do you want to call your dad?”

She sighs. “I probably should.”

As she sits forward to grab her phone from her back pocket, Will can hear a loud screeching of tires. He’s not able to turn around, however, as a large semi-truck plows directly into the side of the car. Glass sprays across them as the suburban rolls with the force. It sends the vehicle tumbling a good twenty feet away from the rest of the caravan. 

Will’s vision blurs for a moment in shock once the car stops moving, his ears ringing loudly. He can tell the vehicle has settled on its side, his seat belt digging into his hips. After blinking a few times he’s able to get his vision to clear. There’s blood splattered across his glasses, one side with a large spider web style crack. Will quickly flicks them off, he doesn’t need them to see anyways, then takes an assessment of his surroundings. 

The driver is dead, it’s likely that agent’s blood that covered his glasses. To his side, technically below him since he is hanging sideways, he can see Reba, though she seems to be floating halfway between conscious and not. Shifting his weight to one side, he's able to remove his seat belt, careful not to fall on top of her. He feels for a pulse and thankfully it’s still relatively strong. 

There’s the loud cracking of bullets flying somewhere behind the car, but the sounds are getting closer. He turns back to Reba, gently nudging her side. “Reba, Reba can you hear me?”

She nods, groaning as she turns to look at him. “I-I’m okay.”

He sighs in relief, helping her out of her own seat belt. Once she’s out, he pulls out his gun, settling into a crouch in front of her and attempts to ignore the pain sparking up his thigh. To his left he can see a shadow approaching, so he quickly draws, and when he doesn’t recognize the figure he drops them with a few quick shots. There’s a sound above them, like someone climbing onto the upturned side of the car. He aims his gun above, a gloved hand sticking out above him.

“If you want the kid to live through this, you won’t fire.” The accented voice commands as the hand temporarily disappears, returning with a gas mask. “Take it.”

Will reluctantly takes the mask, watching as the man above begins counting down on his fingers. He quickly turns to a scared Reba. “He’s gonna drop smoke in here, all right? You don’t want to breathe it in. I need you to put this on.”

He starts to put it on her, Reba not resisting but not helping either, she’s frozen in fear. “W-what about you?”

“There’s only one. It’s for you.” Once he fastens it down he looks at her, their eyes meeting. “Okay, listen to me. These men are going to take you.”

He can feel anger and fear wash over him, but he blocks it out. He can’t let her emotions sway him. He has to remain calm and get her out safely.

“Are they gonna hurt me?” Her voice wavers as the smoke bomb is dropped from above, landing just behind her.

“They aren’t gonna hurt you. I’m going to find you, okay?” He reassures as he helps her to stand, hands coming through above them to help her out. 

“Please don’t let them hurt me.” She cries, her voice muffled behind the mask.

“Reba, I’m going to find you.” He promises as she’s lifted from the vehicle.

The smoke begins to fog the small space of the crunched car, Will using the collar of his shirt in an attempt to filter some of it as he attempts to crawl through the broken windshield. He takes off his coat, laying it along the bottom to avoid getting cut on shattered glass.

By the time he wiggles out, he can see ropes hanging off of the side of the bridge leading to the water below. A few have already climbed down and a few more are preparing to. He’s able to take down one more man before his gun jams, likely damaged in the crash. As the last man goes over, he pulls a pin from a grenade, chucking it onto the road. Will can now see the wet spots leading towards a large truck disguised as chemical clean up, gasoline and other chemicals spilling out of the back and over the road.

“Grenade!” He yells as he throws himself over the side of the bridge, narrowly escaping the explosion behind him. 

The water is a cold shock against his skin, digging into his wounds. He’s sore and tired and almost debates just letting himself sink down. Almost. The surface pops above him, his lungs taking in a great breath of fresh air. Once they adjust, his eyes catch movement, the rafts moving along the waterway. He can barely see the colorful backpack that Reba was wearing, but they are quickly no more than a blip in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal finally work together?

Why is everyone yelling? His mind provides as he sits, now dressed in dry clothes, outside of Jack's office within the post office. Inside he’s having a pissing match with the U.S. General about what happened, their voices easily heard through the thin walls. Jack already has a hard enough time using his inside voice, a pissing match is hardly going to offer better results. The headache he’s had since the crash is still stinging behind his eyes, the back of his head throbbing. With a sigh he takes a bottle of aspirin from his coat, downing a couple dry. It’s an old habit from when he used to work the field, Alana’s unsuccessfully been trying to get him to stop for a couple of years.

Feeling fed up with being third party to a conversation he’s not even a part of, he decides to go talk with Lecter. The walk downstairs is quick, no one stopping him from entering the large cavernous room once more. The cage has opened a crack, just enough for the guards to get in to secure Lecter to his chair, before it is opened completely. He tells them not to bother sliding it back this time since he doesn’t plan on having an extended conversation with him.

When he comes over, Hannibal looks displeased. His eyes are locked onto the butterfly bandage over his eyebrow plus countless other bruises that have formed. “Where is the girl?” Will demands, not caring about formalities in his anger. “It’s been four hours and your people haven’t made any demands.”

Will can tell he’s not pleased, but he doesn't mention it. “My people? I informed you of Dolarhyde’s plan to kidnap the girl. That's all I know. The case is in your hands now.”

Will grumbles, rolling his shoulder as he crosses his arms. “I need your help with Dolarhyde.”

“The mathematics of human behavior. All those ugly variables. Some bad math with this Dragon fellow. Are you reconstructing his plan? What kind of problems does he have?” Hannibal asks, watching with narrowed eyes.

“He has a few.” Will comments, letting his arms back down, again fidgeting with his shoulder.

Hannibal watches the subconscious gentle handling carefully before his eyes flick back to his face. “How about a trade? You tell me and I’ll tell you. Tell me about your shoulder, I see you take great care with it.”

Will is silent for a moment, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He sighs and steps forward, sitting on the corner of the platform, leaning back against the wall of the cell. “Rotator cuff issues after I got stabbed when I worked for homicide in New Orleans. It got jostled in the crash.”

“Were they intentionally trying to harm you?” The doctor asks, his voice soft, could almost be calming if Will didn’t know who was behind it. He has to remind himself not to fall too comfortably to the low timbre of his voice, he’s used it to talk a man into biting off and choking on his own tongue after all. 

“No.” He answers honestly, his eyes focussing somewhere in the distance as he recalls the memory. “He was scared. Just a kid, busted him for drugs, he was selling it to try to make money for his family. My partner and I burst into the house, but he got me first.”

Hannibal is silent in contemplation. “May I see it?”

This gets his attention, his eyes flicking up to the man. He briefly realizes he doesn’t have his glasses and curses himself for such forgetfulness. Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t waver, but it’s not harsh. In fact, it’s soft, almost concerned for him. Slowly, he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to briefly pull the collar down and show him the scar. It was left red and gnarled, not healing well afterward. The accident only seemed to aggravate it more.

When he pulls up his shirt to button it back up, he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on his skin. It should make him feel unnerved or even unclean. It doesn’t. “The girl.” He demands, though not as harshly as before. “Please.”

Hannibal offers a small smirk, as if proud that Will is using his manners. “You won’t find Ms. McClane until you look at this differently.”

Will dreads his next question, already having an idea of what he means. “And how should I look at this?”

“Like a criminal. It may come easier than you think. Shall I show you?” He offers, his voice light in what can best be described as excitement.

*****  
Shackles clang and clack as Hannibal is led into the main area of the post office, SWAT members and agents alike all on high alert by his presence. He’s led towards the boards on the end of the room, Will by his side and Jack off to the side. Beverly stands near Jack, watching skeptically. It’s obvious she does not approve of the man being out of his cage. The SWAT members take a step back as he begins looking over the boards. He moves with a sense of pride and curiosity as he scans over the massive wall of clues.

A small smile comes over his face when he sees the picture of Dolarhyde on the wall from the airport. “Ah, at least you’re aware of what he looks like.” He offers a small chuckle as he looks closer. “I haven’t seen him in years. Rather interesting to talk to.” He turns to glance at Will as he points at another photo on the wall. “He, however, is completely unrelated to this.” With a swift flick of his wrist, he removes the picture from the wall, dropping it to the floor.

With complete confidence he continues to remove surveillance photos and mugshots from the wall, narrowing down their clues. Beverly steps forward prepared to yell at him. “Hey, you can’t just-” Jack puts his arm in front of her, stopping her from interfering.

Hannibal continues down the wall, pulling down documents and rearranging images. Will watches quietly from the sidelines, secretly enjoying watching the man work. He’s a bit more surprised, however, to watch him rip a photo in half before showing it to Will. “Garret Jacob Hobbs. Also known to many as The Shrike.” He names before pinning the remaining half to the board. “Highly regarded munitions expert. He spent many years working on pipelines, a very skilled hunter. He and his daughter Abigail have become well known for their capabilities with taking on tasks with little to no survivability rate. Rather an expensive undertaking to involve them.” He continues down the wall, taking a moment to wave at a large section. “None of this has any relevance.” With a small flourish, he turns back to Will who has begun to look at some of the documents deemed important by the criminal. “What information do you have on Ms. McClane and her father?”

Will sighs, continuing to scan the wall, his mind whirring. “You said earlier he has a thirty-six-hour timeline. That would suggest a single event, something in D.C. I’m still not sure about the girl…”

“What about Hobbs?” He asks as he steps in next to Will, looking at him intently.

“Important. Whatever Dolarhyde is planning is expensive. An attack?” Will suggests, turning to Jack before going back to the board.

Hannibal looks almost disappointed. “You’re thinking like law enforcement, Will. They are far too objective, obligated to protocols.” Will glares at him, knowing what he’s asking.

Beverly sighs as Will looks back at the board, his eyes closing. “Okay, this is ridiculous. What Will is suggesting makes perfect sense.”

Hannibal holds up a hand to her, a silent sign to be quiet, his eyes not leaving Will. The room is silent for a moment before Will’s eyes flutter open. He immediately turns to Hannibal, gesturing to the board. “He is preparing for something.”

A smirk ticks up the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. “What is he preparing for? How does that relate to the girl?”

Will’s eyes widen as he makes the revelation. “He’s becoming.” He takes a couple of photos, rearranging them on the board once more. “He believes himself to be transforming into something beyond humanity. At all of his known murders, he would leave mirrors over their eyes. To allow them to see what he is turning into.” He pauses a moment to look over the board once more, eyeing the printed photo of the painting the man attached himself to, before turning to Hannibal. “He’s transforming into The Dragon.”

Beverly looks between them. “What about the bomb?”

“He needs these sacrifices to fuel his becoming. He is ready for the final step of his transformation, he needs bodies and he needs a lot of them. A bomb is a pretty efficient way to do that, and he’s gonna use Reba to deliver it.” Will answers, his shoulders falling heavily.

Jack's voice booms over the room, spurring the agents into action. “Let’s move, we’re on the clock!”

“I have an acquaintance,” Hannibal adds, stepping in closer to Will’s back where he has resumed scanning over the board. “He’s commonly referred to as ‘The Innkeeper’, runs a series of safe houses. I’m confident if you lean on him, he may tell you where Hobbs is hidden.”

Jack comes up behind, his arms crossed over his chest. “Where do we find him.”

Will and Hannibal both turn to look at him. Hannibal clicks his tongue in distaste. “Quid pro quo, Jack. If I am to give you something, you must return the favor.” This earns a raised brow from the Director. “No more restraints, no more cages. If you wish to capture Dolarhyde, he must believe I am moving freely. In touch with my old friends, residing in a favorite hotel.”

He scoffs at the suggestion. “If you think we’re gonna put you in the Sheraton-”

“You can save your Starwood points, Agent Crawford. The Sheraton is not my hotel of choice.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter but it leads into a long one!

The hotel room is certainly lavish, gold and bronze decor all throughout the room. They enter into a seating area, a closed-off bedroom to the immediate left, and a large dining area and kitchen to the right. Hannibal steps into the room with the kind of easy familiarity of a man returning home. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it along the back of the couch since Agent Katz is currently standing in front of the coat rack. He takes a moment to inspect the fine furnishings with an amused smirk at the glare being sent into his back.

She huffs a forced laugh, her displeasure evident by her tone and crossed arms. “Live it up, Lecter. As soon as this is over you go back to a nice cozy cage.”

An employee of the hotel enters with a bucket, filled with ice to cool a bottle inside, that he sets on a small table behind one of the couches. “Dr. Fell, it’s a pleasure to have you back. Here is your complimentary champagne, and as usual the bed has been made with blankets instead of a comforter. Is there anything else I could do for you?” The man asks as he gives Hannibal a polite smile, his hands folded in front of himself.

Hannibal returns the smile. “Not at all Eric, thank you.” He then turns to Beverly with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Would you be so kind as to tip the gentleman?”

*****

Will watches the screen of the computer, placed with a team in a nearby room just down the hall. This particular camera is positioned on a lamp aiming right at the head of the large dining table. A shiver of frustration aided by resentment runs down Will’s spine as the criminal on screen sits calmly, enjoying a meal complete with a glass of fine wine. After a bite or two, he pauses to raise his glass in the direction of the camera, making eye contact with it as if he knows Will is sitting behind it. He can hear the quiet music playing in the background, the steady instrumental of classical music, something Will has never particularly fancied, adding to the garish sight. It’s a taunt is what it is, and it’s serving to trigger every ounce of annoyance in his body.

Beverly enters with two cups of coffee in her hands. She passes one to Will who gratefully takes it, anything to take his focus off of the infuriating man in the other room. “They found the cabin. Abigail is the only survivor.” She speaks as she takes her seat next to Will.

“What about the bomb?” He questions as he takes a tentative sip at the drink in his hand. Good, it’s plain.

“Squad says they are pretty sure they got to her before they had a chance to finish building it.” She responds as she props her feet up on the desk next to the computer.

Will spares a look at his watch, groaning at the time. “I gotta get out of here and clear my head. Take a shower, see my wife.”

“Don’t go running off.” She jokes as Will grabs his things and leaves, her eyes on the screen once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday everyone! Tw for hostages and torture!

By the time he returns it’s already dark, the lights of their humble home illuminating the street. It’s a welcome beacon that he hopes they will be able to find equally pleasing somewhere more secluded. Once inside, he calls out to Alana and drops his bag by the door. There’s no call back, and no familiar scrabble of claws on the hardwood floor. Carefully he comes around the corner, seeing the display placed in the center of the room. A folder sits on the coffee table of their living room surrounded by balloons. Behind it is a sign that says ‘We Got The House!’ in big letters. He can’t help the smile that spreads over his face at being greeted by an ostentatious sign (that she obviously made herself) and colorful balloons. As he steps closer he sees that the light is on in the kitchen, the familiar figure of Alana seated in one of the chairs.

“You are a miracle-worker! I don’t even know how you managed to pull this off!” He praises as he enters the dining room, seeing an open bottle of champagne on the countertop. “I can’t believe-” 

He turns to looks at his wife, almost dropping the bottle at the sight. Bruised and bloody, she is tied to the chair with thick rope, duct tape placed over her mouth. Her eyes are half-lidded in partial consciousness. He calls out her name, moving towards her, but freezes at the cold press of a gun barrel to his temple. 

“Sit down.” An unfamiliar voice commands. When he doesn’t immediately comply the metal is pressed harshly into his scalp. “Sit down! Do what I say or I shoot your wife!” 

At this Will waveringly pulls out the nearby chair and takes a seat, the man moving to the other side of Alana, gun still loosely trained on him. “Alana?” He asks quietly, hoping for a reaction.

“See, Alana and I have been talking, brainstorming as to why the FBI knew I was in town. I’m curious how you discovered The Dragon.”

“Alana, look at me.” He begs just as lowly as before, earning a small twitch of a nod as if she’s trying but can’t do it.

“Your presence was, surprising. Though, I think it went well.” Dolarhyde shrugs noncommittally.

Will can feel the moisture building in his eyes, holding the tears, as well as himself, back with as much force as he can. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“But, you saved me the trouble of dealing with Hobbs. He never understood my becoming, he’s not worthy enough to see it anyways. But now I wonder what all you know, how do you know it?”

“I don’t-” His words jumble in his throat as he sees Dolarhyde pick up a knife from the table. “Alana-”

“No, no, no, no, no. Over here.” Dolarhyde redirects his attention, waving the knife in the air in front of Will’s face. “I’m asking you a question. What else do you know about The Dragon?”

Will clenches his eyes shut for a moment to stop the fall of tears, quickly opening them again. “A bomb, maybe. We don’t know! We only knew about the girl, the rest is just speculation.” He answers truthfully, turning to coo at Alana again. “It’s gonna be okay.”

His scream dies on his tongue as the knife is sheathed in her thigh. Will can see the spurt of blood as she shifts away from the pain, not enough strength to do much more than that with a groan. His vision swims as the tears he was clutching to so tightly finally roll down his face. He can feel the phantom of her pain in his own leg, his abdomen clenching violently at the idea and almost forcing bile into his esophagus. 

“You son of a bitch.” He grits out through clenched teeth.

Dolarhyde leans over the table, the blade left in her, trying to get closer to intimidate Will. “Tell me what else you know!”

“Nothing, I swear to god-” He isn’t sure if those words are a plea or a promise as the assailant interrupts him.

“You’re not as smart as Lecter says.” He taunts, shifting back towards Alana once more. “I’ve yet to understand his utter fascination with you.”

Will doesn’t focus on him, his mind whirring fast as he tries to determine if his wife will survive this encounter or not. “It’s alright, you’ll be fine.”

Dolarhyde brushes her hair back, almost lovingly, before speaking again. “I’ve decided to change my tactics. What I’ve got planned now will make for plenty of witnesses to my transformation. So, I’ll leave you with a choice. Stop me now and save hundreds of American lives, or save only one.” With those words, he rips the knife from the meat of her thigh and quickly stabs it into her stomach before swiftly absconding from the room.

Will can hear the sound of the door opening but doesn’t follow it. Instead, he falls to his knees next to her chair, immediately pressing napkins from the table onto the wound with one hand while flailing through his pockets to get to his phone with the other. “Alana, Alana you gotta keep your eyes open. I’m gonna get you some help but you can’t fall asleep.”

He distantly remembers dialing 911 and thinking belatedly that there’s no way they will make it in time.

His next memory is sitting with her in the hospital, her hand clenched in his as machines flutter and beep. He doesn’t remember the medics, police, or even the ride there. All of it passed by so quickly while his mind was overrun by the words they had spoken and the pain he felt in sympathy. After waiting for her to get done in surgery, he was finally allowed into her hospital room which is where he has been all night. 

The even huffs of breath he sees filling her lungs are controlled by a tube stuffed down her throat that is controlled by a respirator set off to the side. It fills his own lungs with fire, anger simmering heavily in his chest. A determination fills him as he watches those annoyingly even synthetic breaths, that beeping lifeline on the monitor next to him. 

He’s gonna catch Dolarhyde if it’s the last thing he does.


	9. Chapter 9

The door to the hotel room opens with a loud crash as Will busts into the room. His anger is palpable as it washes over him and out into the room around him. He marches into the space eagerly looking for the man who resides somewhere inside. There, at the dining room table, sits the infuriatingly calm doctor. In his hands is the morning newspaper and on the table in front of him is a cup of what Will would hazard to guess would be either coffee or tea considering the time of the morning. 

“Did you send him?” Will accuses as he stomps up to the fine dark wood table. Hannibal glances up through his lashes at Will, his expression indignant at the intrusion but still calm. “Are you the one that did this?”

“Did what, Will? What is it you are accusing me of?” Hannibal asks as he carefully folds the paper and places it on the table in front of him. He pushes slightly away from the table to better face his guest, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knees. 

“He was in my house!” Will yells, becoming even more upset by how calm Hannibal is. He shouldn’t be surprised, the guy is the fourth most wanted by the FBI after all. “My wife is on a ventilator because Dolarhyde came-”

Hannibal looks at him with sympathy artfully drawn on his features. “Calm down Will. Tell me what happened in full.”

Will can feel the now familiar burn of water in his eyes but he refuses to cry now. Not in front of him. “Don’t you dare play stupid. You’re the only connection he could have made to me. He told me that you have some sick obsession with me.”

Hannibal remains entirely calm, his mask placed securely to cover coiling annoyance. “Did he mention the girl or the bomb?”

Will huffs out a disdainful breath. “We are not a team.” He gestures between them for emphasis.

“The Dragon, Will.” Hannibal continues to push.

“I am not your partner.” Will grinds out between his teeth.

Hannibal barely restrains the exasperated sigh he feels like giving at Will’s angered antics. “I need you to focus, what did he say.”

He begins to pace back and forth along the length of the table, attempting to get the gears in his mind to stop grinding so harshly. “I-I don’t know. He said- he said something about casualties and that he already has the bomb. He mentioned you, even said he knows we’ve got Hobb’s daughter.”

Hannibal finally does sigh, gently placing one of his hands on the table. “So the bomb is still in play.”

As Will stalks away from the criminal in his angered pacing, he grabs one of the lamps from the wall and forcefully slams it into the ground. Luckily, Hannibal notes, it wasn’t the one rigged with a camera. “Why the hell was he at my house! Tell me!” Will yells at him as he comes close, slamming his hands on the table. “Why is Alana in the hospital right now?”

“The fact of the matter is, dear Will, that despite your feelings, Alana is not of the highest priority right now.” Those words sting, and he knew they would, but he’s not lying. Will begins to circle him, moving behind him and to the other side. He doesn’t turn his head to follow the movement. Will’s loud shuffling is easy enough to track. “Francis Dolarhyde has done you a tremendous favor.”

Will’s fists tighten enough to make his knuckles white at his side as he glares at the man sitting before him. His eyes catch the light reflection of small gold that details a pen rested next to where Hannibal has lain his newspaper. The sheer rage blinds him from his actions as he clutches the sharp metal writing utensil and slams it into the side of the older man’s neck. There is a satisfying grunt of surprise that leaves the man, giving Will a sick sense of righteousness at being able to harm him.

Will holds the pen in place, Hannibal’s hand joining in an effort to hold the pressure. Will then proceeds to kneel to his side, far enough forward for him to force eye contact with the criminal. Hannibal’s eyes are clenched shut in pain, but after a moment he opens them to see Will crouched next to him. 

The detective leans in close, sharing the air between them. Hannibal makes note of the gleam in his blue eyes and swears to capture it in ink later should he survive this encounter. After seeing the beauty of the younger man’s wrath, he can’t say he’d be too upset to die by his hands. It stirs something within him that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. Expectation.

“Now,” Will practically growls “You and I both know that just went through your carotid. Best chance, a minute or so before you pass out.” Will can feel the warm stream of blood that has begun to pour from the wound and build in pressure against where his hand is pushed against the warmth of his neck. “Here’s how this is gonna work. You tell me how I find Dolarhyde and make this right, or I let you die right here. How’s that sound?” 

Those last words come out in a tone layered in sticky sweetness, venom coated in honey. Hannibal would give up his entire collection of classical works to hear it again. “Yes,” He forces out with a rough voice, his consciousness already beginning to wane. “But if I die, you’ll never discover the truth about Alana.”

Will doesn’t seem affected by the words, his expression leveling out to a more controlled chaos of emotions. “You don’t know anything about Alana.” 

He quickly stands and yanks the black and gold pen from Hannibal’s neck, tossing it down onto the newspaper. His eyes slowly track the roll of it as it smears maroon across the page. In big bold letters at the top of the page is the word ‘Obituary’. Before he can think twice about his actions he turns and leaves the room just as swiftly as he entered.

*****  
Will stands just outside of his dining room, confined away from the bloody scene in his own kitchen. Lights of red and blue flash behind him from the sirens outside and reflect off of what little furniture is left clean from the mess of an attempted murder. People he doesn’t recognize are walking around his home, traipsing through his wife’s blood. His mind seems to distort the sound of chatter and radios as if he’s floating underwater, his gaze locked on where she was sitting at the head of their modest table. 

There are flashes of cameras that light up the area like lightning strikes, the smell of chemicals used to find clues permeates the air. The sight of police tape and little yellow numbered cones is familiar, but that familiarity does nothing to quell the distress building in his chest.

As he stands there silently watching, he lets the pendulum swing. Within seconds all of the lights, the people, and the tape is gone. All he’s left with is blood stains and an ache in his heart. He steps up to the largest puddle, now all dried into the carpet in the doorway between the seating area and the dining room, and drops to his knees. 

Next to him is a bucket of water with some household cleaning supply he found under the sink. He’s not even entirely sure it’s meant for carpet, but right now he just needs to get rid of the blood. Wash away the evidence of her almost death. From the suds, he pulls out a thickly bristled brush and begins to laboriously scrub at the spot. He puts his back into it, pressing down on it as if it might actually get it out.

His grip is white-knuckle tight as he presses down with both hands. He puts his whole weight down into the motion a few more times as another burst of anger flairs through him. He tries to keep calm, take that rage out on the horrific stain below his fingers, but it’s too much. He’s overwhelmed. 

With a yell, he chucks the damned brush as far from him as he can into the kitchen. He can hear the telltale thud of it colliding with a countertop but can’t find himself to be upset about the possibility of it carrying the red stain with it. Instead, he falls back to his rear, leaning against the doorway with his knees to his chest. He wants so badly to be emotional, to be able to grieve the loss he hasn’t had, his mind is crossed and thudding with his pulse in an aching throb. 

While he attempts to come to terms with what this may mean for them he hears the tentative skitter of claws against hardwood. His still soaked hands scrub at his face only to be joined by the comforting licks of a wet tongue against his jaw. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around the pooch and pulls him into his lap. Winston easily settles against his chest with a small concerned whine as he snuggles against Will’s shirt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙇♀️🙇♀️🙇♀️ I'm sooooooo sorry that I got so behind on updating this fic 😩 things were so much easier when I was in quarantine and had time! Lol. I'll be posting the last of the chapters tonight just so that I can get them out of the way and you won't have to wait forever for updates again! Enjoy!

Will’s steps are heavy and rushed as he enters the hallway, military and FBI personnel crawling around like roaches. Of course, they wouldn’t let a man like Hannibal Lecter reside in the hospital without security. His pace picks up as he nears the room, Beverly standing just outside the door. Her easy calm immediately drops when she sees him, stopping him from entering with a gentle hand on his chest. 

“Bev, I’ve gotta talk to him.” Will pleas, even using the nickname he’s overheard others using in an attempt to get on her good graces.

“You shouldn’t be here Will. You’re under official review, you know that right?” Her frown deepens.

Will tries not to mirror her expression. “I know. And I know Abigail isn’t talking, right? She wouldn’t give him up that easily.” 

Beverly seems to hesitate before giving a resigned sigh. “No, she’s not.”

Will nods resolutely. “Lecter knows Dolarhyde, just give me five minutes.” He watches her closely, quickly letting out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when she gives a small nod and turns her back to him. “Thank you.”

He passes by her just as a man in scrubs comes out, a tray with meds and such being pushed in front of him. Will waits for the nurse to get out of the way before entering. When he gets to the bed on the other side of the room he has to pull back the privacy screen. All he sees is an empty bed and curtains flowing in the breeze of the open window. 

He rushes to the window and sees a grappling hook with a thick rope attached to the radiator right below the window frame. When he looks out, several floors below he sees the silhouette of Hannibal Lecter walking across the parking garage.

With a curse he rushes back out of the room, alerting Beverly to the escape. She has to go in and double-check, so Will chases down the nurse. He catches the innocuous man stepping into an elevator but is unable to get to it before the doors close, earning a wink for his efforts.

*****  
Hannibal takes a deep breath of the crisp air, looking out from the monument of the sixteenth American president at the smooth surface of the water pool that stretches from the Washington Monument. The air is clouded, but not with a chance of rain. It sets a tone of gloom over the outdoors which he finds rather fitting for the events meant to take place today. 

His steps are careful and silent as he approaches the familiar disheveled form sitting on a bench near some shrubbery. With a gentle grip, he places his hand upon the man’s shoulder to get his attention. He waits until Dolarhyde turns to give that sign of recognition, that small grin on his face at the sight of Hannibal standing there.

“Hello. It’s good to see you, old friend.” Hannibal greets before removing his hand. He takes a silent seat next to The Dragon on the bench, his eyes forward as he scops out the area around them. He can already hear the ring of police sirens in the distance. “How did it go with Agent Graham?”

Dolarhyde matches his relaxed posture as his eyes scan the crowd. “Paid him a visit, just like you asked.”

Hannibal can’t help the little crinkle of a smirk on his lips as he finally turns to his friend. “And his wife?”

The man turns to share his gaze, an equally amused quirk of lips decorating his own face. “Like you requested.”

The doctor turns back towards the water, a soft sigh on his lips. “It is a shame you will miss the cherry blossoms.”

“I think a lot of people will miss the cherry blossoms.” He retorts, his voice quiet and fond.

Hannibal stands from the bench, Dolarhyde joining him as they begin a calm stroll around the area and away from the memorial. “Do tell me, why the general’s daughter? It was a very high-risk choice.”

Dolarhyde offers a small scoff as he shoves his hands into his pockets to fight off the cold. “This is about more than just one girl.” He keeps their walk slow and easy, looking like two old friends on a simple stroll through the park. “Dr. Lecter, today I am shedding this false skin and stepping into my true form. In sixty years they will be talking about this day- about my legacy.”

*****  
Will is in his car, stuck in the familiar traffic of DC streets when his phone begins to ring. He answers it with his usual level of hostility towards unknown numbers.

“Hello Will.” The familiar purr of European accent echos over the line. “Excuse my lack of pleasantries, I am rather pressed for time.” His voice is serious but still apologetic. “It appears Dolarhyde has grander plans. He intends to hurt other children, not just the Generals daughter.”

Will can’t help the slip of panic that he has to swallow down. “Hannibal, Where are you?”

“Will,” He attempts to refocus the conversation. “I need you to tell me what Francis Dolarhyde said to you in the house. What did you see?”

Will’s mind quickly takes him back to that night. The blood leaking from Alana’s wounds, Dolarhyde hovering over her, his lips moving as he spouts hideousness like black ooze rolling from his tongue. He hears the groans of pain as the knife is sheathed into her abdomen, the way her head rolled back in agony. “He, uh,” His voice wavers as he attempts to focus on the road to ground himself. “He asked about Hobbs and the girl.”

Hannibal’s voice is calm, though there is the tiniest hint of a sigh in his tone. “No, what did you see?”

Will can feel his hands shaking even as his knuckles turn white. His grip on the phone tightens to the point where, were he able to focus on that, he would wonder how it wasn’t broken yet. “There was blood.” behind his eyes he sees the napkins he attempted to pack into her wounds, the red liquid dripping down her face where she must have taken a beating. “There was blood everywhere.” His inhales become quicker like he can’t get enough oxygen into his starving lungs.

“Take a deep breath, Will.” The reassuring voice calms him a little as he does as instructed.

Will pulls to a stoplight and closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to be immersed back into the scene. He remembers meeting his eyes briefly when Dolarhyde attempted to get his attention. The small dark mark on the back of his hand that he attempted to wave in Will’s face. “There was a tattoo.”

“He only has the one, a large depiction of ‘The Dragon’ on his back,” Hannibal responds, Will can hear the typical sounds of the street from the other end of the call.

“I know what I saw,” He grumbles. “The mark, I’ve seen it somewhere…” Then it clicks, the mark is the same as the flower pressed into the inside of Reba’s wrist. He remembers her words clearly. “The D.C. Art Museum. It’s a stamp.” The realization washes over him as he redirects his course, driving faster than strictly necessary. “He’s going to bomb the D.C. Art Museum.” He growls as he makes a quick left turn.

*****  
Beverly jumps from the vehicle before it’s even fully stopped, people rushing out of the way of the series of SUVs with flashing lights that have pulled up to the monument. She takes a few steps and looks over the crowds, attempting to see if she can spot their escapee. The voice of Zeller carries over the earpiece with calm yet hurried words. “Still moving west, three hundred yards give or take from your position.”

Immediately she turns in that direction, breaking into a sprint with a few other agents at her back. They weave through the streets, the agents slowly being separated as they attempt to run through the mob of pedestrians along the sidewalks. She swiftly veers left towards a street, having to launch herself over the hood of a car. Loud honks follow her motion but she doesn’t have time to stop to explain herself. 

“Approaching fourteenth street. You gotta move! You gotta move!” He encourages as he watches the blip of the trackers on his screen.

Her lungs have begun to burn but she can’t slow down. Her feet hit the pavement with resounding thuds as people clear a path for the running woman, her deep blue jacket identifying her as FBI. Her pace is quick but steady as she moves towards where she is being directed. “You’re closing in on him,” Zeller reassures as she pushes herself further down the cobbled walkway.

She gets to the location and has to stop, spinning around quickly in hopes of seeing him, even just a sign of his presence. Something. “I’ve got nothing here, come on, where is he?”

“He’s turning onto Maryland Avenue,” Zeller responds.

She turns briefly towards that direction, under an archway of a nearby building. There, through the window of the architecture to the other street, she can see the familiar shape of the long coat Hannibal favors. Just as she looks at him he passes behind the support for the arch, moving out of sight. Beverly dashes towards the figure, full speed as she tries to catch up to him. He’s disappeared into the crowd once again, but at least now she knows he’s nearby.

She quickly crosses the street, thank god for the stoplight, and dashes down the large sidewalk on the opposite side. “Dead ahead, Katz, he’s dead ahead.” She slows down as she approaches the building, looking out over the crowd. “The signal has stopped. He’s right there.”

She glances over faces upon faces hurriedly, attempting to recognize any of them. “Where is he?” She growls, not able to see him.

“He should be right behind you,” Zeller explains as he watches the slowly moving blip. She turns, realizing he must have gone inside. “He must be moving vertically, are there stairs near you?” The agent asks over the comm.

She runs inside, quickly flashing her badge at security before rounding towards the glass-encased stairs, moving as quickly as she can upwards. A few flights above she can hear hurried steps much like her own. Those steps are only a few steps faster than hers to breach the roof, going through the door moments before she can.

She pulls her gun and steps out, seeing the shape of the tall figure standing on the edge of the building looking down onto it. For having just run up several flights of stairs he seems calm, peaceful with his hands in his pockets and his eyes scanning over the city below. The light of the sun is lowered enough that Beverly can only make out his silhouette like a shadow over the sky. “Lecter! Lecter, put your hands where I can see them!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for Suicide. It is marked in the chapter by a '&' symbol before and after. A summary of the scene will be in the end notes.

Will tries to move quickly yet calm, not wanting to alert anyone should his intuition be wrong, though it’s more worrying that it never really has been before. The woman at the gate moves to stop him, but with a flash of his temporary badge, he is quickly ushered in. She looks like she wants to ask something, but is too swiftly overcome with families and children to be able to voice it. 

He moves past abstract sculptures and paintings strung upon the walls as he looks over the sea of children, reminding him briefly of the high school and the chaos that ensued there. He continues to look around, hoping and praying to find something, anything that could lead him to wear the bomb could be hidden. 

He makes it to the fountain near the center of an open area, stopping to glance over his surroundings. Bright balloons and children’s giggles fill the air which, added to his existing stress, is making it extremely hard to focus. He tries to look, to see, maybe his subconscious mind will lock on to something that his conscious mind wouldn’t. His frantic searching rewards him with the sight of a recognizable hoodie on an equally recognizable girl. 

She sits quietly by herself on a well-worn bench against the back wall a dozen feet or so from the main path. Her eyes are half-closed, she looks tired. Like the adrenaline from the hectic last few days has drained away along with whatever energy she has left. 

Will quickly makes it through the ever-thickening crowd and to her side, crouching in front of her to get her attention. He calls out her name as he approaches, her head shaking as if to rid herself of the exhaustion obviously pulling at her. “Hi, Reba. Are you hurt?” He asks gently, moving some of her long hair from her face.

“No.” Her voice is weak as she stares at her hands unseeingly.

Will lifts her chin to look at her eyes and sees them entirely blank, as if she isn’t able to focus on him. Whatever drugs he gave her seemed to have calmed her as well, no residual fear firing back at him from their quickly shared empty gaze. “Are you alone?” He asks as he takes her hand to check her pulse, her fingers cold from the late autumn air. 

“Wait here for your dad.” She parrots back what she must have been told, Will feeling a steady, albeit slow, pumping of her pulse. He notices a wire sticking out from above the line of her shirt and curses internally as he gently as possible lifts the bottom of her shirt slightly to reveal a vest covered in circuits and wires taped to her skin. “Don’t take this off.” She repeats her captor once more.

As gently as he can, without disturbing the way she had begun to lean towards him, he stands over her to look at the bag on her back. Just under the thin fabric, he can see the numeral count down of the bomb, reading two and a half minutes left until detonation. Just as he begins cursing in his head, already making a plan of who he needs to call, his phone rings in his back pocket. 

He moves fast and gentle to remove himself from her while allowing her to keep herself upright before answering the call. Even if she’s drugged to the gills she doesn’t need to hear this. He glances at the number, recognizing it from before. “Whatever you do, do not touch it.” Hannibal’s voice is stern in his demand.

“There’s less than three minutes,” Will speaks fast but quiet. “I need to evacuate the Museum, call the bomb squad-”

“Your people will never arrive in time,” his words are concerning but his tone is placating as if he has the solution to the world’s problems. “My friend, he’s on his way.” Will can hear the echo of his voice, as well as quick steps on what he assumes, are stairs.

His brows furrow as he looks back at the teen who appears about ready to pass out on the chair. “Friend? What friend?” He doesn’t get an answer due to the line ending.

Will quickly goes back to the girl, sitting on the bench next to her and pulls her close, allowing her half-conscious body to lean against him. Is he making the right decision? To trust Hannibal? He makes no move to do any of the things he just told himself he would have to do, no calls to any squads or agencies. Instead, he sits here, listening to the yells of excited children and the muffled beeping from within her bag. 

&  
*****  
Beverly holds the gun firmly in her grip as she calls out. “Hands in the air!” 

Slowly the man in the long coat complies, his hands lifting from the pockets. He splays them open and empty before turning with a small grin. He led her away, throughout the town and up several flights of stairs. She chased him across town, on the opposite side of D.C., away from the Museum. His work was finished.

“Dolarhyde?” Beverly asks in surprise at the face not being who she expected but quickly steels herself once more. “Step down from the ledge.” She calls, The man relaxing with a sickening smile stretching his cheeks. He relaxes his hands once more into his pockets, Beverly quickly taking a step forward. “Hand’s where I can see them or I will shoot you down!”

Dolarhyde slowly does as instructed once more, this time something small coming out of his pocket. “This. This is my becoming.” He holds up the small object with his thumb over what looks like a button on the top of it. 

Before he can press it she fires off two rounds into his chest, his body immediately slumping back to fall over the edge of the building. Before going over, though, he manages to toss the small object towards the ground in an effort to keep it from going down with him. She quickly rushes forward to grab it and quickly realizes that it is not, in fact, the detonator he made it out to be.

Actually it is a capsule used to hold a set of teeth. When she opens it to see what is inside, she becomes instantly more upset to see the tracker that was imbedded into Hannibal back at the compound. That was why she had been chasing Dolarhyde and not Lecter. “He pulled the tracking chip.” She couldn’t help but be equally upset and impressed by how well his plan played out. “Son of a bitch.”

*****  
&

Will pulls away for a moment to look at the bomb now pressed to his side, seeing the numbers dropping quickly. Just under two minutes now. That seed of doubt plants itself further into his skull as he briefly wonders if he planned this. Debates whether all of this was an elaborate and showy plan to sneak into the FBI just to prove how easy it is. To demonstrate how effortlessly you can crawl beneath what little morals they have and kill them off.

He is startled from his thoughts when a man he doesn’t recognize plops a bag down by his side and begins frantically digging through it. Will immediately jumps from his seat to question the odd person. “Did Hannibal send you?” He asks but the only response he gets is in some foreign language that he doesn’t speak, of course, he doesn’t speak English. “I can’t understand what you're saying. Can you stop the bomb?” Hs asks again only to earn more unintelligible words in the odd language. 

The foreign man pulls a knife from his bag and cuts open the back, knowing not to just open the zipper. He begins investigating the insides as Will crouches down in front of Reba. She seems to be slowly coming back, but her eyes still refuse to focus.

“I can’t see anything.” She mutters softly before swallowing and gripping onto his hand. “Are… Are we going to be okay?” She asks slowly, Will carefully holding her still in hopes that she won’t jostle anything around too much. 

“Yes, we are gonna be okay.” He attempts to reassure her, the words not really helping himself feel any better. That doubt, along with the unsureness of the situation, is wreaking havoc on him right now, but he needs to stay calm for the teen in front of him. 

Will can see the man working as quickly as possible, digging through both his and the girl’s bags to get to different things. He can’t let them sit in silent anticipation for either death or salvation, so instead, he begins to talk. His main goal right now is to keep the girl still and calm while he works.

“Hey, you know, I get scared sometimes too. Sometimes I see monsters, and sometimes they might follow me around.” He confesses, holding back his flinch at revealing such a secret about himself. 

“How do you deal with them?” She asks quietly, Will jumping between watching her and the man behind her. 

“I’ve got people to support me, to help keep the monsters away.” He tries to put a smile into his voice, hoping to keep her relatively docile until this is over. 

“Would you? Keep the monsters away?” There’s a dreaminess in her voice, she likely won’t remember most of this conversation. 

But, even still, he responds without hesitation. “Yes.”

He hears a tiny clip followed by the quiet beeping growing faster. He keeps his eyes on Reba, holding her hands in his in an attempt to keep her attention. “There are no monsters here, just you and me.”

He can see the odd man working faster, snipping, pulling, and shifting as the rapid beating counts down. Will can feel the anxiety rising in his throat as he gently squeezes her hands, his eyes closing as he waits for the inevitable blast. He wonders briefly if being this close would mean he would feel anything? Would Elise? What about the hundreds of other children happily traveling around them none the wiser as to what is happening just a few feet from the walkways. 

Suddenly the beeping stops just as quickly as it began, the man crying out in joy as he begins to quickly remove the device from her ripped bag. Will immediately jumps up to stop him. “Wait.” The man simply smiles, blowing a kiss in his direction as he slips the device into his own bag. “Wait. What are you doing?” He calls as the man begins to run the other direction, away from the building towards the back. 

“Simply count the device as payment for his services rendered.” The low timbre from behind Will is unmistakable. He turns just in time to see the older man wave to the foreigner before calling out to him in whatever language it was that the man had been speaking. 

Will can’t believe what he’s hearing, the adrenaline that had built in his system from the anxiety of the bomb now being expelled in his anger. “That is a chemical weapon!” He exclaims as he vaguely points in the direction that the man had run to. 

Hannibal nods as he follows the man with his eyes for a moment before looking towards Will and coming closer from where he entered. “He is quite fascinated by them. I rather suppose he has far more use for it than either you or I.”

Before Will can argue any more, he can hear the bustling of equipment as fully armed agents come running into the Museum, most of them ushering parents and children out of the premises while some run over towards them, Beverly leading this particular group. Hannibal places his hands on his head as Will shouts over his shoulder to the agents, describing the man who ran off with the bomb for them to go follow. Medics rush to Reba and swiftly usher her away from the scene, hoping to reverse whatever seems to have been done to her sight.

Beverly quickly grabs Hannibal’s hands, pulling them behind his back. His face is colored with a smirk as he glances towards Will who has sat back down on the bench. “I believe we shall make an excellent team.”

Will looks back at him with a groan, scrubbing over his face and hair with his hands. He doesn’t even feel surprised that Hannibal would be pleased by the way this all went. Even if he ends up back in custody, somehow this was all exactly to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> &Beverly followed a man onto the top of the building but discovers it was Dollarhyde and not Hannibal like she originally thought. She aims her weapon at him and orders for him to step away from the ledge of the roof. Instead of complying with the order he throws a container at her before jumping off. Inside of the container is the tracking chip that was supposed to be in Hannibal. &


	12. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for following/ reading this story! Again, I feel so bad about the inconsistency of the updates. I'm trying to get better about that 🙇♀️! If you enjoyed this story please leave a Kudos and a comment! I love responding to comments, they always make my day 😊.

The dim room is lit only by the curtained windows, the overhead lights off to allow for the natural light to the right of the room to come in. There is a coldness that has settled in the air, egotism radiating from every major party in the room, the other agents squirming from the nonverbal dominance battle happening between the three seated at the long dark wood table in the center of the meeting room. Hannibal Lecter is seated at the end of the large meeting table, the familiar symbol of the FBI on the wall behind him. To either side of the ostentatiously large crest are two armed agents. 

To the left of the criminal is Jack Crawford, his seat turned towards the man to give him his attention. He seems placating enough for the moment, a tactic to hopefully get the information he wants. Behind him sits a stenographer, transcribing their conversation for later review. 

Perhaps Crawford thinks that looking over his words over and over would reveal something he doesn’t present currently. Were he a younger, freer man, Hannibal might play that sort of game with the agent, though for the moment he has no need for such trivialities. 

To his right is the ever-present Beverly Katz, Her eyes tightened into a glare as she sits with her arms crossed over her chest. Since her placement of the task force designed to capture him, they haven’t been on the best of terms. He can hardly remonstrate her that, considering that the last they saw of each other she did try to kill him.

Hannibal silently admits to himself that he is rather disappointed to not see his dear professor Graham present at the table, but perhaps this will make the meeting go far smoother in the long run. He sits calmly at the head of the table where he knows he belongs, not bending to the force of will in the room. He carefully crosses his legs below the table, his hands rested on his lap as he makes eye contact with Jack.

The locked gaze must finally push the man to speak, finally breaking the tenuous silence that had begun to stretch on for far too long. “Who was the man that took the bomb?”

Hannibal doesn’t fight the pleased smirk on his face. “I don’t find myself compelled to share that information.”

Crawford remains outwardly calm, but Hannibal can see that vein throbbing in his forehead. “You gave him a chemical weapon.”

Hannibal relaxes slightly into the back of the seat, leaning towards Jack to emphasize who he speaks to. “He took it. All business comes with a price, an equal exchange. That is the fundamental principle of business, Jack. With certain people who can get a specific thing done, the price may come with a higher incentive. I know you are well aware of this.” He offers another placating smirk at the man. “You’re hyperfocused on such a trivial matter that you’ve blinded yourself to the bigger picture. The bomb did not detonate, young Reba was returned to her father alive, and The Great Red Dragon is dead. I rather find that the situation was handled quite advantageously.”

Beverly grumbles as she sits up in her chair, leaning into the conversation. “This was never about Dolarhyde. You surrendered and infiltrated the FBI to get at our intelligence.” She accuses pointedly, glaring at Hannibal.

“Your intelligence?” He asks with a quirked brow.

“To get to the weapon.” She states as if her wild theory was already a proven fact.

He offers a small chuckle, his mirth at the double entendre of the words. “I am more than satisfied with my own intelligence, Ms. Katz.” He all but teases the woman before continuing. “I would think it more likely to say that I attempted to assist you in good faith, but failed to have your side of the bargain met and was forced to complete the task of my own accord.”

Jack was silently seething in the corner, the man was infuriating beyond belief, and any longer spent here with him would likely result in some unsavory actions. “I think we’re finished here.” He says as he begins to stand. 

Hannibal clasps his hands, looking up at the standing Agent. “That was quite intriguing. I should say I would rather enjoy another go-round. Do understand, Dolarhyde was only the beginning.”

This seems to get his attention, Jack pausing to look at Hannibal who already looks like the cat who slaughtered the canary. “The beginning of what?” There’s a mixture of dread and fascination in his voice.

“The beginning of the list.” He answers in short, grabbing their attention. 

Jack turns to the stenographer, gesturing for her to stop, the writer closing the laptop she had been using. “All right, you have my attention. What list?”

Hannibal watches with a smirk as Jack reclaims his seat, waiting for him to get comfortable before responding. “It’s called The Blacklist, a rather eccentric name. It is the reason we have gathered here.” He offers Katz, who has been glaring at him, another placating grin as he speaks now to her. “A wish list, of sorts. I’ve been cultivating it for some time. It consists of politicians, mob leaders, hackers, and spies.”

She only scoffs as she crosses her arms again. “We have our own list, one that you were on.”

Hannibal only sighs, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes if not for how unseemly the action is. “Agent Katz, please.” His tone is stern, slightly scolding as if she should already know this information. “We are all well aware that your ‘Top Ten’ list is little more than a publicity campaign It stands as a popularity contest at best. The criminals of whom I speak are of a far higher caliber, the ones you would never uncover because you are unaware of their basic existence.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs is a capelin who lost his group, a small fish in a large ocean. I am Ahab, and if you desire access to the whales on my list, you must understand equal exchange for my information.” He offers Jack a small tilt of his head as the agent leans back, seeming to take in the advice being given. 

“I never retire in the same locality for more than two nights successively.” Hannibal sees the look Beverly gives to her superior across the table. “If you want to have me chipped like a common house pet with that rubbish you purchased from AlphaChip that was carelessly shot into my shoulder, do so with a fully encrypted 8-millimeter tag that can be embedded into my neck. 

“I will require my own security team, I have culminated a collection of five acceptable applicants, you may choose two of them.” Jack leans forward into his seat, listening intently to this list of demands with the gaze of a man who is fighting two sides of a losing battle. “Any information given by myself will fall under an immunity agreement that I shall be present to negotiate on. Finally, my predominant request, I speak solely with William Graham.”


End file.
